


Half Life

by maychorian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Delirium, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson is a Good Brother, Gen, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Tim Drake is Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24889069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maychorian/pseuds/maychorian
Summary: Batman, Nightwing, and Robin get thrown into another world by a mage. It wouldn't be such a big deal, if Tim didn't immediately fall ill with a sickness that had no apparent cause.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 406





	Half Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is incredibly self-indulgent, yet took me months to write. I tend to write sickfics when I'm stressed, because I find it soothing. So this started out as just a collection of scenes, written in fits and starts when I needed to relax myself with a bit of fluffy hurt/comfort. Then I had to find a plot for it, sort of, at least enough of a framework to hang the scenes together. And then I had to find an ending.
> 
> I think it turned out pretty nice despite that. But you may see the cracks, if you look. I hope you at least find it indulgent and soothing, as I did, like a cup of hot chocolate or vanilla chai.

"Tim, I need you to eat something."

Dick sat at the rickety table in their rickety rental cabin, a bowl of milk and cereal in front of him. He had a spoon in his hand, full of cereal dripping with milk. He held it toward Tim's face, like he was going to feed him like a baby. Tim stared at him in a daze, cheeks flushed with fever. At the last minute he closed his eyes and turned his face away, and the spoon bumped his chin, spilling milk and cereal on the table.

Dick sighed like he should have known that would happen and patiently wiped up the mess with a napkin, then wiped off Tim's chin as well. He cupped his hand tenderly around his smooth, soft cheek to hold him still. Tim slumped in his chair, eyes shut, breathing heavily, and let Dick do what he wanted with him.

Bruce sat across the table from them, feeling a cold lump in his chest. He'd never seen Tim this out of it, even when he had the Apocalypse Virus. Tim's fever was far too high, or perhaps it was the fatigue that was making him so hazy and punch-drunk. Bruce didn't know what to do.

He wanted Leslie. He wanted Alfred. He wanted home.

All of those things were out of reach. Batman, Nightwing, and Robin had been sucked through a portal on their way back from foiling one of Ra's al Ghul's plots. A robed figure, probably either one of al Ghul’s men or hired by him, had cornered them in the desert when they were on their way back to the Batplane, incanted some arcane words, then made a throwing motion to make the portal appear. Gravity seemed to slip sideways, and they had nothing to grab, nothing to hold onto except each other as they fell through.

It was frightening, how quickly Tim had deterioriated. The first day here, they went to ground, standard protocol when faced with unexpected transportation to another time or dimension. Bruce always carried a few grand in various currencies in his utility belt for such eventualities, and fortunately this world was very similar to theirs, so they'd been able to buy civilian clothes at a thrift store and find this out-of-the-way cabin to hole up in while they researched their new surroundings and put a plan together. This world wasn't particularly dangerous, it appeared, but that might just make things harder.

This world didn't have superheroes. Or if it did, they were all underground or regional. There was no organization like the JLA, at least, nothing Bruce could consider going to for help. He was still searching, hoping to find someone, anyone, he could consider a potential ally or resource for getting them home, but so far no luck.

The search had been delayed, though, when Tim started showing signs of illness on the second day. He was coughing and sneezing, his breathing was labored, and he had a fever. He was also shockingly weak, as if all of the strength had been drained out of him by a magical beam. Dick and Bruce were both highly alarmed, fearing a return of the plague that had almost taken Tim from them twice before, but he didn't have the tell-tale rash of that particular death sentence.

Bruce took Tim to a free clinic, passing them off as father and son. It wasn't hard, with their similar coloring and the way Tim leaned into his shoulder the whole time, close to passing out. Only Bruce's arm around his torso kept him upright much of the time. After an interminable waiting period that nearly drove Bruce insane with impatience, they finally got in to see a doctor.

The doctor went through a standard exam, shining a light in Tim's eyes and mouth, thumping him in various places, listening to his heart and lungs, asking questions about his symptoms. Tim complied with instructions and answered questions to the best of his ability, though he was hazy and confused. Bruce answered for him, where he could.

In the end, the doctor determined that it was nothing serious, just a cold or flu that would pass with time, rest, and over-the-counter medication. Bruce would have been more relieved if he hadn't known that there was no guarantee that this doctor was even seeing something from his own universe. Bruce was a tiny bit worried about cross-universe contamination. If they had brought over a disease that wiped out this entire world, he doubted Tim would ever be able to forgive himself. But that seemed unlikely, and Bruce didn’t want to borrow trouble.

So he took Tim "home," after a stop at a pharmacy to stock up on any remedies that seemed helpful. Surely it was just a cold. Surely it would pass harmlessly, in due time.

On the third day, Dick and Bruce had been stirring for at least an hour before Bruce went to check on Tim in his little alcove tucked off the main room and found him so heavily asleep that it seemed almost coma-like. It took ten straight seconds of shaking, Bruce doing his utmost not to snap and scream in his face, before Tim groggily opened his eyes. Ten seconds had never felt so much like an eternity.

"Tim. Tim." Bruce wrapped his hands around his shoulders. "Are you okay? How are you feeling?"

Tim blinked up at him, utterly blank and confused. "Wha... What are you doing here?" He looked around, frighteningly limp, frowning. "Wait... This isn't my room."

"Do you remember where we are?"

Tim rolled his head over to look up at him. "We're not in my house."

Bruce almost laughed, though it wasn't funny at all. "Well, that's true."

Tim brushed weakly at the hands on his shoulders, and Bruce let go of him and sat back, perched on the side of his bed. Tim got his elbows underneath his body and tried to push himself up. It took a couple of tries, and in the end Bruce gripped his upper arms and lifted him to a sitting position. Tim slumped there on the bed, breathing heavily and staring down at his lap. He seemed drained even by that small effort.

"Oh man, my dad's gonna be mad. I've missed curfew by like...a lot."

Bruce huffed a breath and brushed a hand through the kid's hair, causing his head to rock on his neck. "I think he'll just be glad to see you, buddy. Besides, we don't know how time syncs between that universe and this one. It might not be that long after we left once we finally get home."

Tim frowned, the flesh between his eyebrows wrinkling. That was far too esoteric a concept for him to wrap his head around in his foggy state.

"Never mind." Bruce shook his head. "Do you want to stay here in bed, or get up and have some breakfast? I'll get your medicine ready."

"You don't hafta," Tim said, the words stumbling over his tongue. "I can get my own... I can take care of m'self."

"I'm sure you can. But you don't have to. Dick and I are here with you, remember?"

Tim stared at him, frowning in confusion. It was like the idea of someone else taking care of him was foreign. 

Bruce gently nudged his chest. "Why don't you lie back down? I'll come back with your medicine."

"Noooo." Again, Tim pushed awkwardly at his hands. There was zero strength behind it. It was disconcerting. "I wanna get up."

"Okay. Whatever you want." Bruce stood up and stepped back, reaching the door to Tim's little alcove in one step. "Come out when you're ready.”

Tim sat there, blinking slowly. Bruce ducked out and went to the kitchen area. He fully expected Tim to forget that he had decided to get up and just go back to sleep. He prepared the liquid medicine in the little cup, then headed back to the alcove, just in time for Tim to bump into his chest so hard he would have fallen to the floor if Bruce hadn't caught him under his elbow.

"Whoa. There you go. Okay, let's go sit down."

Bruce shepherded Tim over to the table and nudged him into a chair, then set the medicine cup in his hand. Dick, sitting across the table with his cereal and milk and several newspapers spread out in front of him, stared at his pseudo little brother with shock and worry. "What the hell, Bruce? He looks ten times worse than yesterday."

"I know." Bruce brushed his hand through Tim's hair again. He touched Tim's fingers wrapped around the medicine cup. "Take your medicine, Robin."

Tim blinked and complied, obeying orders as Robin the way he would not obey them as Tim Drake, which Bruce had been counting on. He grimaced a bit at the thick, sticky syrup in the cup, but drank it down without complaint. Bruce took the empty cup from his loose grip and carried it back to the sink to rinse it out. Meanwhile, Dick shifted over a seat, leaving the newspapers behind and bringing the cereal with him.

So now Dick was trying to feed Tim like the baby bird he so strongly resembled, small and rumpled, with fever-bright eyes. Trying with no success, unfortunately. Tim shook his head and turned his face away at the offered food, closing his eyes in negation. "Not hungry," he mumbled.

"You gotta eat, Timmy." Dick set his spoon aside and cupped both of Tim's cheeks in his hands, holding him like a porcelain doll, too fragile, too dear. "I can make you something else. We have fruit and juice. Or I can go to the corner store and get you frozen waffles, or oatmeal, or a granola bar. What do you feel like?"

Tim shook his head, looking nauseated. "Not hungry," he said more strongly.

"Okay. You at least need to drink something. We can't have you getting dehydrated. Please, Tim, you gotta try. For me?"

Tim heaved a doleful sigh, but he nodded, though his mouth was set stubbornly. He didn't like being manipulated, but he didn't have the strength to oppose Dick anymore. Dick went to the fridge and poured a glass of apple juice, then brought it back to the table.

"Here you go, kiddo. Give it a try." 

Tim held the apple juice loosely in his hand and took a sullen sip. He brightened slightly and sipped again, settling back in his chair. Dick sat down next to him to watch.

Bruce stood up, chair scraping on the wooden floor. Tim didn't react, but Dick looked up at him. Bruce gave a nod. "I'm going to watch the morning news." He tipped his head at Tim, not bothering to lower his voice. "If he falls asleep on the table, put him back to bed."

Dick nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching up. It was definitely a funny image: little Timmy slumped over the table, asleep and drooling. Bruce patted Tim's head, drawing not so much as a blink, then went over to the couch in front of the old-style CRT television and sat down to watch the news, just in case something interesting or useful came on. 

He only had to turn his head to keep an eye on Tim and Dick, which he found himself doing more than once. It was a little odd to stay in a place where everything was really in one big room, but it could be convenient as well. Dick and Bruce had taken the upstairs sleeping loft, barely big enough for two queen beds, while Tim was content with the twin bed in his tiny alcove. There were two couches, both with pull-out beds as well. So technically, the cabin could sleep nine people, more if someone brought a cot or an air mattress. The idea seemed inconceivable to Bruce.

Eventually a story came on that engrossed him, and Bruce watched the TV. It was a report about a natural disaster just a few states away, flooding from a torrential storm. If there were any superheroes in that region, surely they would have been there, mitigating the damage and saving lives. Even if it was just a throwaway line, something like, "Such-and-such was also spotted on the scene," that would be enough of a lead for Bruce to pursue.

Then he heard Dick's voice, ringing clearly in the small space. "Tim, where are you going?"

Bruce raised his head and looked toward the kitchen area. Tim had not fallen asleep on the table, as Bruce had half-expected. He was standing, wobbling on his feet, blinking dazedly. Dick was half-risen out of his chair, a hand reaching toward him.

Tim shook his head like he was trying to rattle something loose, then wandered away from the table. He didn't seem aware of where he was going or what he was doing. The cold lump in Bruce's chest gained in weight. Hopefully it was just fatigue. Tim was just tired and feverish, it would pass in time...

Bruce must have made some kind of noise, or said Tim's name without thinking about it. Tim turned toward him, narrowing in on his voice like a bloodhound on the scent. He started moving toward Bruce, his steps much more certain and confident now. Bruce watched him come, eyes widening. The noise on the TV was just a droning in the background, unimportant.

Tim came to a stop when his knees hit the couch where Bruce was sitting. A small grunt of displeasure crossed his lips at being stymied. This close, Bruce could see how hazy Tim’s eyes were, how flushed his cheeks, how fast his breath.

"Tim, are you okay?"

As if he'd been waiting for a signal, Tim moved again. He climbed right into Bruce's lap, sitting sideways across his legs and slumping down with his head on Bruce's chest. For a moment Bruce just sat there, his arms raised and frozen in the air like a startled cat. Then Tim sighed and went limp, as if he'd found something he'd been looking for. He went so limp, in fact, that he started to slide off Bruce's lap.

And well, that could not be allowed, Bruce closed his arms around him and tugged him in close. Tim murmured unintelligibly, but the tone was undeniably pleased. Bruce couldn't see his face, but he could feel the contentment radiating from him. His body was too warm, too pliable in Bruce's arms. But there was something pleasant about holding him, nonetheless.

It had been a long time since Dick had been small enough to nestle in Bruce's arms like this. Jason would have been welcome, but he was always a little too old, a little too wary, a little too rough around the edges. More than once Bruce thought he would have liked it if Bruce had offered, but Bruce had been too cautious. Now he wished that he'd tried to hold his second child every single night.

Bruce had thought that Tim was the same: too old, too dignified, too separate. They had shared the occasional hug when Tim was living with Bruce while his parents were out of the country, but now that their relationship was much more like work colleagues than family, Bruce felt privileged to get away with squeezing Tim's shoulder now and then.

This...this was unprecedented. Bruce also somehow doubted that Tim had ever curled up in Jack's lap, at least not since he was very small. But now, while he was sick and feverish, brain fogged and thoughts hazy, it was Bruce Tim had gravitated to, Bruce he trusted to hold him, Bruce he felt safe enough to relax with. It was overwhelming.

It was wonderful.

Dick was stuck half-risen out of his chair, staring at the strange spectacle. Bruce lifted his head and gave him his best try at a reassuring smile. "I think it's okay. He's just tired and a little addled. It'll be fine."

Dick straightened and walked over to pet Tim's hair, leaning down to look into his face. After a few minutes to scrutinize the kid, he straightened and gave Bruce a small, tight smile in return. "I'm gonna go fetch a blanket. And a glass of water. Try to get him to drink when you can."

"Did he drink the apple juice?"

"About half. It's something."

Dick moved away to fetch the promised materials, then brought them back. He tucked the blanket around Bruce and Tim and set the glass on the end table where Bruce could reach it. Then he returned to the table to continue reading the newspapers. Bruce tried to pay attention to the news again.

It was over, and he hadn't heard anything important. They needed to buy some kind of cheap computer or phone. These analog methods of searching were highly inadequate, and their own devices were incompatible with the service here. Bruce had been thinking about going out and finding a library or a cafe where he could try to jack into this universe's version of the internet, but that plan was not going to happen now. He had something more important to do.

He bent his head to try to see Tim's face, but the angle was wrong. He shifted the boy in his arms, nudging him over so that his head rested more against his shoulder than his chest, and jostled him carefully to get his attention. "Tim, are you awake?"

Tim's lips parted, and he moaned softly. His eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened, and he stared blearily up at Bruce. His expression was irritated, clearly unhappy with being roused from his comfortable spot.

Bruce's lips twitched in a smile. "Sorry, kiddo. I want you to drink some water, okay?

Tim held still for a few seconds, as if he was considering the question deeply, then gently nodded. Bruce let go of him with one hand so he could grab the glass of water, then brought it back to Tim's lips. He fed the water to him slowly, sip by sip, as Tim continued to lay against his shoulder like a drowsy child.

Eventually, Tim shook his head and turned away when Bruce tried to press the glass to his lips again. Bruce set the glass aside, then let Tim slide into a more comfortable position against him. He looked up to see that Dick had been watching them the entire time, his face creased with worry.

“Maybe we should put him to bed now?” Dick’s voice rose uncertainly at the end

Bruce looked back to the boy on his shoulder. It was probably a good idea, honestly. But he was strangely reluctant to give this up. "Tim, do you want to move?"

Tim turned his face toward the sound of Bruce's voice, like a flower seeking sunlight. His head flopped limply on his neck, eyes still closed. His hot forehead ended up nestled in the crook of Bruce's neck, and he let out a tiny hum of contentment and went still.

Bruce would have smiled if he weren't so worried. It was unbearably cute. He hadn't realized that his earnest little Robin could be so adorable. 

He looked up at Dick and shook his head. “He can sleep here. I don’t mind.”

Dick frowned, but he went back to reading his newspapers.

Bruce looked down at the boy in his arms. Tim was not his son. He never would be, God willing, since he didn't deserve to lose another parent. But he was his Robin, and that was close enough. He was his charge, his responsibility, his treasure to protect. Bruce was glad to have him, in every capacity he was allowed. 

Thoughout the day, Tim kept refusing every effort to feed him. He drank a little more juice and some weak broth Dick heated for him on the kitchen stove. Anything more solid was a no go. He remained heavily mired in fever and delirium, too. It was disconcerting, and it felt more and more worrisome as the hours passed and Tim's condition did not improve. If anything, it got worse.

When Bruce put him down on the sofa for a few minutes to use the restroom, he came back to find him shivering and miserable, nearly inconsolable. Dick had tried to hold him and comfort him in the meantime, but nothing helped until Bruce pulled him back into his lap and held him close again. Tim wrapped his arms around Bruce's neck and pressed his face to his shoulder.

Dick wanted to leave and do more research elsewhere, perhaps in a library, but he couldn't stand the idea of leaving Tim when he was this bad off. Bruce told him to go, that he could handle taking care of their Robin, but Dick was not convinced. Bruce would have been insulted if he didn't feel the same way, honestly. Even while Tim didn't seem to recognize Dick as a possible source of comfort and clung to Bruce instead, Bruce felt better for having his eldest boy nearby. He was out of his depth, and Dick was his back up, his partner and support, as always.

Then Tim suddenly groaned and doubled over in Bruce's arms, clutching his stomach. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his eyes were clenched shut, his face twisted in a grimace of pain. Alarmed, Bruce tried to hold his shoulders and maneuver him around so he could look at him. "Tim? Tim! What's wrong?"

A strangled sort of gurgle escaped Tim's lips, and he shook his head and clapped both hands over his mouth. He was bent nearly in half, his abdomen spasming. Bruce understood.

"Dick! Bring me something he can throw up in, a bowl or a garbage can or something."

Dick leaped to his feet with a wild look of alarm and lurched around the kitchen, throwing open the cupboard doors. In seconds he reached the couch where Bruce and Tim sat, holding a mixing bowl. Bruce grabbed it from his hand and thrust it under Tim's face.

"Here, here, you can let it go, it's okay."

Tim's body lurched wretchedly, and he grabbed the sides of the bowl with both hands and bent over it. His lips stayed pressed firmly shut for a few more seconds, and then they opened.

Bruce winced as the boy vomited. He sobbed and convulsed. Bruce brushed the hair back from Tim's sweaty forehead, then rubbed his back in soothing circles. "It's okay, it's okay. Let it out, partner. You're doing great, there you go." 

Tim heaved, and Bruce heard a surprising sound. It was like a clinking of glass, something small and hard landing in the bowl along with the sour strings of vomit. Tim finally finished and fell back against Bruce's chest, breathing hard. Dick was waiting with a glass of water, and they encouraged Tim to rinse his mouth and spit in the bowl. When he was done, Bruce handed the bowl to Dick.

"Be careful washing that out," he said quietly. "I think there's something in there."

Dick grimaced, his expression baffled. "What do you mean? What could be in...that?"

Bruce shook his head. "I don't know, but there was a sound... Like a rock. It was unusual, and I have a feeling we should pay attention to anything unusual."

Dick shrugged, but obeyed. Bruce looked to the small face resting on his shoulder. Tim's eyes were closed and his cheeks were pale, but he was limp and relaxed, as if he'd gotten rid of a weight.

"Tim." Bruce brushed his hand over his head. "How are you feeling?"

Tim murmured unintelligibly, eyelids fluttering. The unpleasant episode seemed to have cleared some of the fog, though. He sat still for several moments, as if absorbing what had just happened, then abruptly sighed and curled into Bruce's chest again. Bruce carded his fingers through his hair.

"Holy..." came Dick's sharp voice, and Bruce looked back to him, eyes narrowed. Dick was holding the bowl in his hands over the sink, now rinsed out, and rocking it in his hands as he stared at something inside.

"What is it, chum?"

"I have no idea." Dick started to reach into the bowl, then changed his mind and brought the entire thing over to Bruce instead. "You were right. There was something in the vomit, poor kiddo. It looks like...a marble?"

Bruce's frown deepened. He took the bowl from Dick and peered inside, holding it away from where Tim curled up on his other shoulder. Tim did not react, and indeed might have already fallen back to sleep.

Inside the bowl was the small, hard object Bruce had heard clinking against it. It did look like a marble, a small, glass-like bead. It appeared black at first glance, but as Bruce continued to stare at it, he discerned other colors in its depths, a swirl of pearlescence, similar to an opal perhaps. And the colored swirls appeared to be moving.

He looked up at Dick. "When we fell through the portal... Do you remember how Tim reacted? Did it seem like he got hit with something tangible?"

Dick frowned and stared away with his hand on his chin, thinking hard. "It's kind of a blur, but..." 

Bruce waited patiently. He already had an inkling. He just wanted a confirmation.

They had all trained in observational skills, how to grasp the details of any given situation and press them into memory. In fact, it was Dick himself who had given Tim his first lessons in this particular skill. Dick did not have quite Tim's knack for putting together disparate facts to grasp a larger picture, but he was a fine detective in his own right.

"His body jerked," Dick said. "Like something hit him. But he didn't react in pain. And after we crossed over, he took a while to orient himself. He kept swallowing, and he looked nauseated. I thought he was adjusting to the new world, like we all were. Like when you have to work your jaw to pop your ears when going up in an airplane. His reaction was stronger than both of ours, but I put that down his inexperience at the time. Now..."

Bruce nodded. "The magic-user in the desert. They seemed to throw something to create the portal."

"Could it really have been something tangible? Something Tim...swallowed?"

The both stared into the bowl, at the tiny black mottled marble swirling with inward energy. Bruce felt faintly nauseated himself, looking at it. This thing...it had been sucking Tim's energy somehow, making him ill, stealing his wits.

He looked to the pale face on his shoulder and reached up to cup his hand over the boy’s forehead. Already, Tim's skin seemed to be cooler, his fever receding. He was asleep, but not in the frightening coma-like sleep of this morning, nor the restless and delirious haze he'd been mired in all day. He seemed to be truly on the mend at last, recovering swiftly now that the foreign object in his body had been expelled.

"I don't know. But the simplest solution is often the correct one." Bruce handed the bowl back to Dick, and he took it to the kitchen table and set it down.

"What do we do with this information?" Dick asked. "If we were home, we could ask Zatanna or someone to look at this thing and determine how to deal with it. But neither of us have any magic, and I've never heard of something like this. Have you?"

Bruce shook his head, still frowning. "At least we have a lead. We should continue our research, with a focus toward magic or magic-users in this world. In the meantime, do not interact with the object. We have no idea what it will do."

Tim slept well and deeply for hours. The fever receded, and it no longer felt like Bruce was holding a limp, Robin-shaped furnace. When he took another restroom break, Tim slept on in Dick's arms instead, and he didn't stir when he was transferred back to Bruce's hold. Bruce dared to hope that the crisis had passed.

It was late at night when Tim finally began to shift, rocking his head on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce and Dick both stopped what they'd been doing and turned to watch him. Tim rolled his head, smacking his lips, then slowly opened his eyes. He lay still for a moment, figuring out where he was.

Then he jolted and sat up straight in Bruce's lap, almost knocking his head into his chin. "Bruce!" His voice was mortified. His hands came up to push himself off Bruce's chest, and Bruce's arms loosened, unwilling to trap him. In moments, Tim was standing in front of him on the floor, the blanket still wrapped around his legs. His face was flaming, and he was panting from the sudden exertion.

"I'm sorry!" he burst out, voice high-pitched with mortification. "I don't know what... I wasn't thinking, I..."

"Tim." Bruce raised his hands, voice deliberately calm. "It's okay. You had a high fever. You were delirious and in pain. I was glad to help you."

 _Glad_ didn't begin to cover it, honestly. After the initial confusion and uncertainty, Bruce had been silently, helplessly delighted to be allowed to hold this boy in his arms, safe and close. He didn't know how to express that, didn't know how to soothe Tim's embarrassment, but he knew this was a memory that he would treasure forever.

Tim groaned and covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. "I can't believe I did that. I'm so, so sorry."

The corner of Dick's mouth quirked in amusement. "You were adorable. I wish I could have taken a million pictures. I did take at least a dozen."

Tim's groan heightened in pitch, and his shoulders hunched around his ears.

Bruce threw Dick a mild glare. "Don't antagonize him. He's had a rough time."

Dick shrugged with one shoulder, entirely unrepentant.

Bruce turned back to Tim. He slowly pulled himself to his feet and moved over to place his hands on the boy's shoulders. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Most of your symptoms seem to have passed, but are you still feeling nauseated or fatigued?"

Tim slowly relaxed, letting his hands slide down his face. He looked up at Bruce, the flaming red on his cheeks beginning to recede. "I...honestly don't feel sick at all. A little hungry, though."

Bruce nodded. "Makes sense. You didn't eat nearly enough while you were out of it, despite all our efforts." He shifted his hand to lay against Tim's upper back, nudging him toward the kitchen area. "Come on, let's get you something to eat."

Tim went with him willingly, though Dick grinned at them from the table, his research still spread around him. "Are you gonna try to cook, Bruce? Don't you think it's better not to poison the kid when we just got him feeling well again?"

Bruce frowned. "I think I can make a sandwich." He knew Dick had purchased sandwich fixings in his grocery run. It shouldn't be too hard to slap some meat and cheese between a couple slices of bread.

But Tim's eyes widened in alarm, and he hastened his steps to get ahead of Bruce. "It's okay, it's okay! I can make my own sandwich."

Tim made it to the kitchen, looking around for ingredients. He spotted the loaf of bread on the counter and headed in that direction, then paused when he saw the mixing bowl sitting there. He peered inside, his expression fascinated. "What the heck is this?"

Bruce grimaced. "You don't remember?"

"Remember? No, why would I remember this? It looks like a weird marble..." Tim reached inside the bowl, just as Dick and Bruce both shouted for him to stop.

Tim stiffened at their yells, but he'd already picked it up. The swirling, opalescent ball shimmered between his thumb and forefinger. Bruce felt a sort of humming in the back of his teeth, like the air was full of electricity. Dick had half-risen from the table, one hand outstretched as if to stop Tim with his mind, and now he straightened fully and moved closer.

"Tim, just drop it back in the bowl," he said urgently.

Tim blinked at him, then stared at the tiny orb. "Why?"

"It's dangerous, it... It was inside you. You vomited it up. We think that mage in the desert threw it to open the portal that brought us here."

"Really? Wow." Tim continued to stare at the ball. He seemed mesmerized. And he was making no move to drop it back in the bowl. He was just standing there, holding it and staring at it.

"Tim." Bruce edged closer, holding out his hand. "Give it to me."

Tim didn't even look toward his voice, just staring without blinking.

"Robin," Bruce snapped, letting the Batman growl come out. "Give me that thing. Now!"

Tim startled and looked at him, blinking dazedly. Then he looked down at the thing in his hand. And he threw it.

It was not a hard throw, more of a lob. The marble sailed through the air in a gentle arc. And of course, Tim's aim was very good. Bruce had trained him for dozens of hours to make it so. Bruce and Dick still ducked out of the way, instinctively, as the marble hit a patch of empty floor between the table and sitting area.

There was a crackle of energy, a rush of displaced air, and a smell of ozone. And there, right in the middle of the room, was a portal exactly like the one in the desert.

Bruce went still, staring with his teeth gritted. On the other side, Dick had a taken a defensive stance, panting with wide eyes. Tim just gave the portal a bland look, like he had expected nothing else.

Bruce looked at Tim. "How did you... Did you know it would do that?"

Tim gave him a slow blink. "Yeah. I guess... You said it was inside me? I guess it told me."

Dick gave Bruce a wild look. "Tim has magic now?"

Bruce shook his head slowly. "I doubt it. I think it was the magic item itself that held this power, not Tim." He looked at the boy. "Do you know where the portal leads?"

Tim nodded confidently. "The Batcave. Back home. That was where I wanted it to go when I threw the marble, so that's where it's going."

"Are you sure? I need you to be absolutely, completely, one hundred percent sure."

Tim gave him a confused look. "Of course I'm sure. Don't you believe me?"

He looked a little hurt at the implication, and well. Bruce couldn't stand that.

"Of course I believe you. You're Tim. You're my Robin."

Tim smiled. It was brilliant, sparkling and beautiful and bright. "Okay then." He gestured toward the portal. "Let's go home."

Bruce had to back up his words, now. There was no backing down. He exchanged a glance with Dick, who shrugged and started gathering together the newspapers spread over the table. 

"How long will the portal last?" Bruce asked. He felt vaguely guilty about skipping out on the owner of this cottage without properly checking out.

Tim wrinkled his nose. "A couple of minutes? Maybe?"

No time to lose, then. Bruce leaped to gather their costumes and other gear, packing them into plastic bags. He turned off the television and did a quick sweep of the house to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything. Dick, for reasons beknownst only to himself, decided to bring the groceries he'd bought.

Tim stood by the portal and watched them work with gentle bemusement. He still looked a little pale and shaky, and Bruce made a mental note to make sure he didn't go out on patrol for a few days, not until he was fully healed from the effects of the magic-induced illness.

And then it was time. The three of them stood in front of the portal, Bruce with his hand on Tim's shoulder, the other hand holding about five plastic bags. Dick nudged Tim with his elbow and gave him a friendly smile. "Together?"

Tim smiled back. "Together."

They stepped through the portal as one. Bruce felt only the slightest shiver of unease. This blank, opaque space really could be taking them anywhere, in this universe or another one. It could dump them into the cold blackness of space, or into the heart of a star.

Of course, none of that happened. Bruce lifted his foot in another world, then set it down on the other side of the portal, right onto the cold stone floor of the Batcave. Tim and Dick stepped out beside him in almost the same instant. Tim stumbled, still in bare feet and sweats, and Dick slung an arm around his shoulders to catch him.

"Whoa, kiddo! Guess you're not as fully recovered as we were hoping."

Tim gasped, shivering in the cold air of the cave. "No, I'm fine. I'm fine, really."

Bruce dumped the burden he was carrying and turned to scoop the boy up into his arms. The portal blinked out, leaving no trace behind. Not even a little marble on the floor.

"C'mon, partner, let's get you to bed," Bruce said gruffly.

Tim grunted in discomfort, but didn't try to escape his grip. He put one arm around Bruce's neck to steady himself and blinked wearily at his surroundings. "I gotta go home. My dad will be upset I missed curfew."

"We'll figure something out for your dad. Don't worry about it."

Not for the first time, and not for the last time, Bruce wished that he was Tim's dad instead. Then the kid wouldn't have to worry about that stuff whenever he was injured by his misadventures as Robin. He could just relax and get well and trust Bruce and the others to care for him. This half life, with one foot in the civilian world and one in the crimefighting world, was dangerous. 

Of course, Tim was not the kind who could stop worrying just because he was told to. His forehead wrinkled, mouth pulling down. "I can take care of myself," he mumbled. "Just let me go home."

Bruce shook his head and held him tighter, following Dick up the stairs. "I know you can," he said in the soothing voice he had adopted while Tim was delirious. "You've been taking care of yourself for a long time. But you don't have to. Not anymore."

Dick looked over his shoulder to give Tim a crooked smile. "We _want_ to take care of you, Timbo. Is that so weird?"

"Yeah," Tim answered instantly. "It's very weird." Then he blinked. Some of that lack of filter was still lingering from his illness, it appeared.

Bruce huffed. He was already holding Tim about as tightly as he could without causing him discomfort, or he would hold him even closer. He wanted to plop down on a sofa, like he had in the other world, and hold this stubborn, wonderful kid in his arms until he fell asleep.

Things had been so simple in the other world. They had nothing to worry about except taking care of Tim and getting home, and Tim had solved that problem himself within minutes of regaining his faculties. They had only been back for a few minutes, but Bruce already missed that simplicity. It had been pleasant. Almost...freeing.

They reached the study. Dick had been looking at his phone, and now he turned and showed it to Tim. "Look, it's still the same day we left. Your dad thinks you're studying with friends from school tonight, right?"

Tim squinted at the phone. "Yeah, the date is the same, but it's still after curfew."

"I know." Dick grinned. "I'll take care of it." He selected a number from his contacts, then put the phone to his ear.

Tim stretched out his arm for him, but Dick dodged out of reach and turned his back. "Hello? Mr. Drake?"

"Dick! What are you doing?" Tim squirmed in Bruce's arms, asking to be set down, but Bruce ignored him. 

"Hey, Jack, this is Dick Grayson," Dick said smoothly. He laughed brightly at whatever Jack said. "Right, the neighbor, Tim's friend! I ran into Tim on his way back from studying and asked him over to look at my baseball card collection. I'm really sorry, it's my fault, but we lost track of the time, and now it's after his curfew. Tim's really upset about missing it and worrying you, but it's okay, right?"

Dick's voice was so light and cheerful, and the force of his personality was so strong, that even Bruce felt himself relaxing just from listening to him. Tim went still in his arms, too, leaning more heavily on his shoulder. He seemed resigned, if nothing else.

Jack said something on the other side of the phone, and Dick nodded affably. "Right, right. Again, and I cannot stress this enough: It was my fault. Tim is a good kid. He would never worry you on purpose." He turned back to Tim and tipped him a wink. Tim groaned softly.

"But anyway, it's so late now, I figure it makes just as much sense for Tim to spend the night here. Oh no, it's no trouble! We love having him. I'll drop him off at school tomorrow, too. Okay? Okay."

Jack said something else, and Dick laughed again. "Great! I knew you'd understand. Thanks, Jack."

He ended the call and gave Tim a bright grin. "There you go! All fixed. And if you're still feeling sick tomorrow morning, we'll call the school and get you the day off."

Tim wiggled in Bruce's arms again, and he finally relented and set him down, though he kept a hand on the boy's shoulder. Tim slumped under his grip, still swaying with exhaustion. At least he wasn't wound tight as a spring anymore. "That won't be necessary. I've been to school with much worse than a bit of the flu."

Dick frowned. "You really shouldn't, Timmy."

Tim shrugged. "I don't have much of a choice." He looked up at Bruce. "Can I go to bed now?"

Bruce squeezed his shoulder. "Of course, partner. You want me to get Alfred to make you some tea?" He knew very well that Tim loved Alfred's tea, and Alfred loved making it for him. Alfred would be relieved to see them home, especially Tim. He was very fond of the boy.

Tim shook his head and turned toward the door. "Nah, I'm fine. Your job is done. I know the way to the guest rooms." He shrugged out from under Bruce's hand, but Dick hurried to join him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Bruce watched them go, frowning. He wanted... A lot of things. Things he could never have. Things that had been torn from him long ago by the hand of fate, or surrendered by his own choices. This half life, part in the shadows and part in the light, had never been easy. Sometimes he regretted it and sometimes he didn't.

Tonight, he regretted it. He wanted something more. Something different.

But for tonight, at least, Tim was safe and mending, protected under Bruce's roof with a brother watching over him. For tonight, at least, that was enough.


End file.
